


Bad days

by TarnishedHasMyHeart



Series: Autistic Jon [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Autism, Autistic Character, Autistic Jonathan Sims, Blood, Blood and Injury, Descrption Of A Meltdown, Hand Biting, Hurt/Comfort, Masking, Meltdown, angry tim stoker, author is autistic, bad stimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22564606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TarnishedHasMyHeart/pseuds/TarnishedHasMyHeart
Summary: Jon has never liked bad days.
Series: Autistic Jon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623562
Comments: 27
Kudos: 291





	Bad days

Jon never liked bad days.

Jon always knew it was going to be a bad day. The air felt heavy and his body felt more worn than normal. His head felt foggy and his bones felt like they would just- fall from his body and leave him helpless if he tried to move them too much. Nowadays it happened more and more often, with the constant stress of how many times he had been kidnapped and all the travel from place to place. He was tired today, but he had been out of work enough and he couldn't keep leaving so much slack for others. 

He ignored his usual routine, as to not let it be wrong. He would rather not do it at all as he got ready in whatever was easiest. He gave an annoyed groan as the feeling his shirt feeling like it was tearing at his skin versus the usual biting. The fabric felt horribly wrong and he wanted it to stop touching his skin. He brushed his teeth for only a few seconds before the feeling off the usually soft bristles felt like they were dragging on his gums and tongue and he had to stop. Brushing his hair felt the same, causing another annoyed groan to leave his lips as he went to gather his stuff.

He snapped during nearly his entire walk, working to avoid talking to anyway when he made his way inside. The less speech the better, and forcing himself to talk was only going to make his bones ache more and his brain feel heavier with extra thoughts he didn't need. On a good day he could think, keep control over things like his stims so they weren't obvious, and interact in his way. But on bad days that was harder, all his energy being sapped with anyone he talked too.

He greeted Martin, knowing if he didn't the other would peter him about what might be wrong and he didn't want to explain things like that on a good day, much less a bad one. He ignored Tim as Tim did to him, and he felt grateful that Tim did't talk to him often. Maybe that sounded bad, but with how talkative he knew Tim could be he would have trouble keeping up. He tucked his things into his office and grabbed the pile of files on his desk. He would file these today, in the back area away from the others sound and speech. He spotted a statement and promised himself he would do it tomorrow when he felt better. 

He stepped out of his office, eyes focused as if he was reading to keep to himself as he made his way to where these statements needed to be ordered. He started to scan the shelves and fought down the urge to knock on the shelves in annoyance. The words weren't properly there. They were simply scribbles and lines and Jon had ti stare at the intently until they made sane. By the time he was halfway through it was already nearly two hours later and his head was pounding as if he was a child hitting it again to cope with the fact that his book weren't working. Now he knew his brain was what wasn't processing the words that were so clearly there, but t was easier to blame them to ease the stress that he wasn't working.

"Jon? Are you alright? You seem out of it," rang out Martin's voice. Compared to the quiet and combined with the pounding in Jon's head, it felt like he was yelling. Why was he yelling? Martin wasn't, it was simple, Jon was just hearing it too much. Too much voice. He forgot to answer, so focused on trying to quiet the words that shouldn't still be in the air. "Jon?"

"I-I'm fine Martin. Just- I'm just tired today after traveling." 

"Maybe you should take a break. I'll finish those files for you for a bit." Jon worked to see if he could hear the tone of annoyance what he has learned to hear in so many of his co-workers voice but there was none. Simply what was probably concern, so he felt safe nodding and passing the papers to Martin. He flinched a bit as their fingers brushed and turned, hurrying off without any more words.

Jon never liked bad days.

On a good day a break would be spent in the break room, possibly making more coffee. On a bad day it was spent at a small empty table in the back, eyes shut and breathing deeply as he tried not to scream at the sounds of the coffee machine and the lights buzzing. As he tried not to tap back at the footsteps that passed the room, like banging thumps to his ears. He didn't differentiate the ones getting closer from any other until he heard a slam and the table shook. He gave a quiet shriek as his eyes snapped open, an angry Tim leaned over him. Brow furrowed, nose slightly crunched, mouth pointed down, and jaw tense. Anger. He was angry. He was angry at Jon? "Why the hell is Martin doing your work when he has more than he can do already?" He was angry at Jon.

Jon tried to get out a response, explaining but the words got stuck. They clogged his throat and he couldn't breathe them out. His face went flat, trying to shield the sense of creep dread that was getting worse. "No Jon. Whatever you're about to say, just no. Martin has enough work, you take a fucking vacation, and then you just up and leave him with more the day you come back. That's not bloody right." His voice was thick, dark and drowning like deep water that was washing over Jon and pushing him down. His ears rang and another set of footsteps passed, pounding worse in his head. "You are going to get the hell up and go take back your work, and fucking do it. Martin may let you push him around, but I'm not-"

But Tim didn't get to finish as Jon shoved him. Hard. Jon heard a yell and gave a soft shriek back. But Jon didn't seem to notice the action that caused the yell as he jumped back, dropped to curl against the wall, shaking. His thoughts blanked as he started to chew at his fingers and hands, biting hard enough to draw blood after barely a few seconds. He felt an upset whine leave his throat with the lights buzzing and wanted to turn them off. Why were they still on? Didn't anyone realize that they were yelling. That they were picking on all of them? He bit harder, in the space between his finger and thumb, bones finally feeling like they were falling away. He wasn't here. He couldn't be anywhere. Anywhere was too much. He felt a hand and yelled, yanking back only to find more wall. But the hand moved and Jon's gaze tried to see where ti went. What if it tried to touch him again.

It had an arm, and that arm was attached to Tim? Tim was here. Tim didn't look angry. He couldn't pick out what it was but he really hoped it wasn't anger. "Jon?" He flinched at the sound and went back to biting, the pain helping drown out the itching and the heaviness and the fog that threatened to tear through his every molecule. Gently he felt someone rake their finger down his back and his actions froze, before resuming. It hadn't hurt so he could ignore it. IT happened again, and again, slightly firmer each time until Jon gave a soft whine and slowly stopped chewing. His mouth tasted liked blood. He knew that taste well. 

His vision felt like it was clearing as he turned and saw that Tim was the one running his fingers down his back, like gentle claws. His skin felt prickly and he closed his eyes. "Lights. Lights. Lights. Lights." He mumbled this softly and felt Tim stop, and hearing footsteps, muffled under painful cotton as the room when dark, the only light fro the hall. Now there was someone in the doorway but he heard Tim's voice rumbled softly and heard them leave.

Tim's cotton footsteps came back, and Jon let him sit by him, and continue running his fingers down his back. "Jon are you okay to speak or move?"

Jon almost tried to lie. But he couldn't this time. He shook his head softly no and curled up more, hiding his face. He felt shame trickle through him, though he was to tired for it to be more than a soft running, like a tap left dripping. He was tired.

Jon had never liked bad days.

He felt Tim stand and gentle let himself be lifted to stand, his body too numb for touch to hurt anymore. He let Tim take him to his office, where he kept a cot for the occasions he stayed to late to walk out at night.

"Lay down Jon." Jon didn't have the strength to argue as Tim sat down on the floor next to the cot and gently took Jon's hand. Jon hadn't seen him grab the first aid kit, but it was there, while with red and hurtful to look at. So Jon turned his gaze away, whining loudly as Tim cleaned off the bite marks and wrapped his hand. It hurt. It was too much and Jon- but it was over quickly. Quicker than Jon's mind registered before Tim was gently draping his hand over his stomach and getting up, setting the kit on Jon's desk. "If you need sleep, you should do that. I'll handle these new files." Tim picked up the stack as Jon's mind hazed, the exhaustion of his meltdown hitting him full force as his eyes started to shut. The lights flicked off, or maybe Jon's eyes shut and he fell asleep before they did, and everything was quiet and dark.


End file.
